My girl with her blue eyes in the night
Stares with the passivity of Scottish mountains
And the urgency of emergency light;
As intricate in languor as Italian fountains,
Her eyes in passion can be huge as the moon
And as plain and as undoubted;
The wide sky on a Winter’s afternoon
Is not so blue, or the air in the early morning
Which makes a mystery of our room;
They are as blue as the snow falling,
As glass, as clean sheets of writing paper;
They are explicit, they are a warning
And they are puritanical, they are safer
Than my thoughts, they are as blue as the truth,
They are as blue as green, and they make her
A window on distances of age and youth,
And out of her is handed an everlasting surprise;
They are a steadfast working class blue
Of fiery Royal blood comprised,
The Virgin Mary’s cloak and Krishna’s skin both
Are copied from those eyes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Chris, sublime poetry, a first class blue. Bob